Anger Management
by YamiKatie
Summary: Malik didn’t exactly get the best start in life. In fact, he’s pretty mentally scarred. Witnessing your father’s murder by your insane alter-ego can do that to a person. So when Malik’s life goes downhill from day one, who can blame him?
1. Chapter 1 ERRORS CORRECTED

Anger Management.

A/N: This story is set just after Malik's tenth birthday, in which his father had carved the Pharaoh's memories into Malik's back. Malik and Isis have just come back from what was the former's first visit into the outside world, when they find Mr. Ishtar has discovered their disobedience and is beating Rishid with a knife.

In this story, I made Malik fairly naïve (not as naïve as Ryou in 'Ryou Bakura's Best Friend' though); the reason for his immaturity at times is because I thought he'd be pretty mentally scarred by his experiences so early on in life. I gave his sister a motherly, adult personality in comparison, thinking it particularly fitting considering her position.

Contains angst and much to cause depression from the start and throughout. Optimists, beware.

Ages of main characters in this story:

Malik - 13

Isis - 17

Rishid - 23

(The age gap between them is the same as it is in the anime and manga, by the way.)

Ahkii: brother (Arabic)

Ma'assalama: goodbye/go in peace (Arabic)

Chapter One: One Great Big Happy Family

……………

Anger is a curious thing. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as "rage, hot displeasure, trouble." Or, the verb form: "make angry, enrage, vex." But it is not the verb that we are interested in. It is the noun, this "hot displeasure." This definition would hardly cause surprise even to the most retarded of individuals; it is the last word that provokes attention. Trouble. For is anger in itself trouble, a cause of it; or is it a sign of trouble, either for the individuals at the focus of it or the anguished mind behind it; or does it simply something that eventually smoulders into trouble for the angered person? Perhaps it is none of these; perhaps this whole train of thought is simply a useless and uninteresting digression from 'the story.' And yet anger _is _this story, it is at the heart of this story, it _is _the heart of this story. You must understand this. For perhaps anger is actually a cry for help from a person at their most vulnerable, the ones too passionately hot to melt into simple self-pity. And when this cry goes unanswered, well…

……………

"No!"

"Ahkii-" Isis Ishtar put out an olive hand; her brother, his own hands slightly paler from the fact that he'd been exposed to the sun but once in his life; his face taut with fury, slapped it away.

"I won't believe it! Fuck you!"

The object of his distress lay on the ground. Once it had been a man. Now it was no more than the charred husk of a skeleton.

__

"Fuck you!"

The tears hadn't started yet, but they would soon, when it eventually sunk in; but until then he would remain in screaming denial if only to protect himself, because it wasn't happening, it was a fucking _lie;_ he would never accept it, he _wouldn't,_ because he hadn't – couldn't have – just killed his own father.

"Ahkii, _please-"_ Isis could feel the tears rising and choked them back; she had to be strong, had to look after him, for the sake of-

She saw Rishid shift his position and hastily untied him, glad of something to do which required no conscious thought, because if it required any thinking about then her mind would switch back on and she would realise-

She gave a gulping hiccup of a sound, the tears fighting their way up relentlessly, and felt Rishid squeeze her hand in a vain attempt at reassurance; such was the numbness suffocating her that the gesture seemed to come from far off, and she felt as if she were watching it happen to someone else.

"Sssh, sister. We have to be strong for him."

She wanted to scream, _what good will that do?_ But instead she just watched him as he crossed softly over to where his younger brother was slumped across the bed, eyes afire.

"Malik."

His burning gaze turned in their direction; his eyes were wild with a hunted, frightened look of a fox fleeing from hounds. "Wh-" He couldn't speak, throat constricted like something was wrapped around it and he was on the verge of asphyxiating.

Rishid didn't say anything, just sat down by him and put an arm around him.

__

That's what I should be doing, Isis thought wildly, _hugging him and comforting him and telling it's going to be okay…and looking after him and getting food and clothes for everyone, because now there's no one else to do it, is there? We don't have any parents. We're orphans._

Orphans. The word seemed ridiculous. Cute little three year-olds with teddy bears and thumbs wrinkly from sucking were orphans, not her. She was fourteen years old, for Ra's sake, and already she had the rest of her family to look after. _And Malik…_

Why was he separate? Radammit, _why?_

He was sitting stiff and upright in his brother's arms like a doll, and with the same glazed expression. Then he toppled forwards as if he was going to throw up, but instead he was clutching his head in a gesture of wretchedness so complete it tore pieces out of Isis's heart like bloody meat.

"He…he can't be…" The words barely even a whisper, begging someone to tell him this wasn't happening. "He can't be, he just can't…"

Helplessness battling the urge to say something, _anything,_ Isis stuttered, "Pl-"

__

"He can't be!" Malik screamed, turning on her. _"My father is not dead! He **isn't!"**_

She wasn't sure if she gasped or not, but she knew she was edging back from him and in that moment she was afraid. He stared at her, his eyes completely devoid of emotion for her –

__

Who the hell are you? You aren't my fucking sister

– and then sat back down on the bed. He didn't collapse- the movement wasn't that defined. It was a sort of swoon, in which he fell limply backwards as if someone had pushed him. Rishid's hand approached slowly, respectfully, and he squeezed it. Then he finally started to cry.

Moved beyond her ability to just sit there and watch, Isis stepped towards him, not caring if he pushed her away or screamed at her with that deadened look in his eyes saying _there's nothing more any of you can do to hurt me, so go ahead,_ but instead he sniffed and shifted slightly closer into her arms.

They sat there for a few moments, bundled together in a group of bones all linked by blood, and instead of thinking that maybe, just maybe, they could live with this, Isis felt that their troubles were only just beginning.

……………

Thumps and screams, muffled by walls, had been issuing from the living room for a few minutes and Isis, who had learned by now to detect trouble almost before it had even started, was already heading towards the door. She opened it, and instantly blasts of sound plunged down her eardrums; barely suppressing a wince, she looked towards the cause of the disturbance, knowing with a sinking feeling in her stomach what would be happening.

"Mr. Ishtar, will you please _sit down?"_

"You can't tell me what to do!" Then the smash of a thrown chair.

"If you actually _applied _yourself for once, there would be no need to tell you off-"

"I don't need to 'apply myself'!" Malik screamed back at him. "I'm cleverer than you anyway!"

"I think-"

"I don't give a fuck what you think!"

"What is going on here?" Isis was trying to make her voice commanding, while not making it sound as if she were blaming anyone in particular, trying to sound as if she had the entire situation under control-

__

Because if you don't then he'll turn on you, won't he? her mind whispered maliciously. _He barely listens to you as it is. But one sign of weakness and he'll turn on you._

Mr. Armeni cleared his throat, giving her a flustered smile at the same time as trying to glare at his pupil, who glowered back. "Mr. Ishtar here-"

"Don't call me that!"

The tutor raised an eyebrow at her triumphantly, gesture proclaiming the words, _you see?_ "-has a problem with obeying his elders. He constantly refuses to concentrate on his studies and, whenever reprimanded, responds with his fists. This simply cannot go on."

"You're all ganging up against me, that's why! I _do _concentrate on my studies-"

"Oh?"

"-when I'm being taught by a capable tutor."

"See? See?" Mr. Armeni accused, jabbing a finger at his irate pupil. "He has no respect for his elders whatsoever."

"That's because you aren't worthy of my respect!"

Isis put up a hand to signal for him to be quiet and in that moment, the first time so far that she had looked directly at him, she saw that same darkness flickering behind his eyes as before. The fear at this made her hesitate, before she swallowed and said evenly, "Ahkii, could you wait in here for a minute? Mr. Armeni and I are going to have a little talk."

A sulky shrug in return.

When they were outside, she turned to the tutor. "Please, Mr. Armeni, don't judge him by what you saw just now."

"It is hard not to. I have taught hundreds of children before, Ms Ishtar, and never have I met one as out-of-control as this one. I'm afraid I don't see the point in my trying to teach him any longer."

"If you could just give him one more chance-"

"If this were the first or even second time, perhaps. But I have taught your brother for three months, and in that time I have seen as good an example of his character as one is ever likely to get. And it is my view that I am wasting my time with him." _And so are you._

"Bu-"

He didn't even wait for her to finish her sentence, didn't even wait to shake her hand. "Ma'assalama."

She watched him walk down the path, briefcase swinging irritatingly jauntily in one hand, before going back into the living room to face (_no, I mean reprimand)_ her brother.

Defiantly: "He didn't last long."

He hadn't. It had been three years since she had seen him crying over the death of his father, three years since she had promised herself she would look after him, and in that time he had got through eight tutors. Each stayed less than before. Most of them had been male, apart from that brief moment when she had wondered if this had been the mistake that was their undoing and employed a woman instead. She had left after two weeks.

Isis didn't reply to this, choosing instead to hold his gaze until he cringed slightly and looked down, feigned bravado dissipating.

Hopelessly: "Malik, what am I going to do with you?"

He fidgeted. "Teach me yourself?"

"That isn't funny." Isis meant to say more; she had compiled endless mental lists of all the things she wanted to say to him, but they seemed to have vanished into some deeper recess of her brain that she couldn't get anywhere near. Then she opened her mouth with the intention of saying something else, and instead found herself beginning to cry. She couldn't think why: for three years her eyes had remained stubbornly dry despite all the things that had happened. She hadn't cried once, not even the time one of the tutors had asked her why she was throwing her life away like this: she was clever and beautiful, he had told her, why waste her time on someone who was little more than a savage? Isis had tried to forget this but the words kept coming back, this and the memory of how his slimy hand had been crawling steadily towards her knee. She had slapped him away, and even so he gave her a leery wink before leaving.

She stared back at her brother, tears blurring her vision, and the next moment he was clinging to her, whispering, "please don't cry, sis. I…I'll be good, I swear to Ra I will. Just don't cry…"

Isis sobbed harder then, pulling him closer towards her. He had never been the type of person who welcomed more physical contact than was absolutely necessary (and in that way he took after his father) so the way he had been the one to come to her made her clutch him even more tightly. Malik was one of those people who was always skinny to the point of looking anorexic, but it didn't seem to have inhibited his growth – he was already nearly as tall as her, and Isis wasn't short for her age. She had that sudden, vertiginous feeling of role-reversal: that he was the one reassuring her, which wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was probably this that made her gently detach him; when he tried to run off she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders in an effort to make him look at her. He did so, unwillingly.

"Sorry." The word was a mumble; obviously his moment of contrition had passed already.

"It isn't that." She sighed and wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. "It's the fact that you are getting through so many teachers, yet learning so little." _It was so expensive, _her mind thought almost in resignation; they simply could not go on like this.

A squirm. "I said I was sorry."

She squeezed his shoulders slightly to get his attention. "What I am trying to say is that this is a bit of a waste of time, isn't it?"

He nodded, too enthusiastically.

"Would you prefer it if Rishid and I sent you to school instead?"

There. She had said it. The use of Rishid's name caused her slight guilt, amongst other feelings: she had not consulted her older brother about this at all. And yet she knew that Malik had far more respect for his brother than he had for her; from a very young age, when Malik could spend whole hours literally tearing things apart, while completely ignoring her pleas, hadn't Rishid always been the one who could make him stop? Simply by stating the word 'Malik,' or by placing a hand on his shoulder, or even just by showing disapproval? It had always been a bitter source of jealousy for Isis, witnessing the way Rishid could get Malik to confide in him without even asking. She was sure this was all because of how they had both reacted just after their father had died, the way Rishid had calmed him down within seconds, while she had treacherously frozen up, with no idea of what to say. Because of this, her little brother would always hate her. Sometimes she could see it in his eyes, in those moments when the black rages stole over him. He had needed her, and she hadn't been there for him.

She was taken aback as his eyes lit up and he whispered, "Really?"

"If you think it would be a good idea."

"Yeah!"

Almost delirious from the fact that he hadn't reacted in the way she had expected him to, Isis managed a smile. "All right then. Rishid and I will talk about it tonight."

"Thank you." He didn't hug her this time, just stood there and smiled with his eyes. Most of the tutors had thought them strange, that peculiar shade which was sometimes light purple and sometimes darker, only they couldn't be because there was no way in hell anyone could have purple eyes; Isis thought they were beautiful.

"Shall I go to bed now?"

It was nearly half-past nine; Malik's lessons were supposed to be from nine until five, with a break for lunch at one, but they had become increasingly erratic of late. Perhaps he really was sorry this time, Isis thought. He hated going to bed. They had once stayed up until twelve arguing about it; just one of the hundreds of stupid arguments they had each day, which invariably ended with Malik flouncing off, slamming every door he could find.

"Okay, if you want."

She detected a faint aura of disappointment – _that's not what you're supposed to say! You're meant to be all happy that I'm being good and let me off! – _but brushed it aside. Maybe some sleep would do him good.

Malik made his way towards his bedroom, which was two doors along. There weren't any stairs to climb – about two and a half years ago, Isis had decided they should move from the hole in the ground which was the only place Malik had ever known properly and had thought of as a 'proper' home – and now the three of them lived in an apartment near Cairo. Not _in_ Cairo (that would have been much too expensive) but just outside it. It was okay though, he thought, because they were still only about twenty minutes away from all the shops where Isis or Rishid went out to twice a week to buy food. He found it oddly reassuring in the evenings when one of them would come back, laden with shopping bags; and sometimes he would help them unpack them and sometimes he wouldn't, depending on how the day had gone. And evenings were also great because that was when Rishid came home from the garage where he worked, and they would see each other again. Malik liked the way everything seemed to slot neatly into the day without changing – he didn't like change. It was unpredictable, and therefore something to be feared, or at least greeted warily. Consistency made him happy.

Isis could be inconsistent sometimes. Usually it was all right because he could tell what sort of mood she was in from the way she stood, so he could work out whether he was due a lecture or not, but sometimes she acted completely differently to how he thought she would. Like today. He couldn't remember ever having seen her cry like that before, and the unfamiliarity of it worried him. People like her weren't supposed to cry; they were supposed to tell you how naughty you had been and how disappointed they were. Malik knew most of his sister's speeches off by heart, and sometimes when she started one he would say the words silently in his head just before she did, and see how much of it he got right.

It had been scary when she had cried, because he had always thought of her as a very solid person who always stood there, sometimes with a long-suffering expression in place, no matter how much you shouted at them. He didn't mind if she looked hurt when he shouted at her, because it was _consistent._ If she had shouted back at him then he _would_ have been alarmed.

Rishid was a solid person too, in that he didn't seem affected by everything just like Isis wasn't, but it was a better sort of solidity, because Rishid _understood_ him. It seemed like Isis tried to, but she could never understand how he felt the way Rishid always did.

Malik heaved a deep, unhappy sigh as he got changed into his night-clothes. Isis was so _confusing._ Always telling him that he should be good, and yet never asking why he wasn't, except in that way which made him shout at her. And then she looked all hurt; although it didn't feel like she was _really_ hurt, it felt like an act, because otherwise why would she keep telling him off? She always acted like she was trying to be his mum, not his sister. And she always _felt _like a mum, too; one of the things Malik liked about Rishid was that he when thought about him it was always as a brother, not as a father. He didn't have parents, and didn't want anyone pretending to be them.

He clambered into bed and reached over to turn off his lamp, before stopping in mid-stretch. Rishid wasn't back from work yet; he was working late tonight, and had told Malik this before he left, understanding that he would want to know this. Malik had understood that his elder brother would be back later than usual tonight, but still the fear was present in his mind, clearer than before. Rishid had _said _that he would be back late, but he might not be. He might not come back at all. Something could happen to him. Something _unpredictable,_ just like with Isis.

Panicked now, he pulled his arm sharply away from the lamp, nearly knocking it over. If he turned off the lamp then he would probably end up going to sleep, and then when he woke up Rishid would be gone.

He clutched his head, thinking how silly he was being. Nothing would happen to Rishid. And yet…what if it did? He gnawed agitatedly at his lip until he could taste the blood, and then thought, _it's okay. He'll be fine. I'm going to count to ten and then go to sleep._

Nervously, he did so. Hmm. Everything _seemed_ all right, but it might not be. Maybe he should count all the way up to thirty, just to make sure.

"…Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." Now everything was going to be all right. Reassured, he reached over and turned off his lamp, comfortable in the knowledge that everything would be fine.

…………

A/N: The Ishtars are one big happy family, huh? But no one needs to worry about that. Because with someone like Malik around, everything is going to be just fine.

This is not a one-shot; I am thinking of continuing it.


	2. Making Friends

A/N: Lots of emotions of all sorts in this chapter. That tends to happen in an angst story. They're probably overdone and cliched, but I'm in a pretty emotion-exploring mood. This whole story is getting an undercurrent of sadness running through it. Either that or a feeling of impending doom, I'm not quite sure which.

I know I haven't been updating as regularly as I usually do lately. This chapter has been languishing on my laptop for over two months now. But just now I got another urge to write, and this time it was so strong I couldn't deny it. Read. Review. Please.

Anger Management Chapter Two: Making Friends

After her brother had gone upstairs to bed, Isis had turned and sat down on the sofa with a vague idea of watching television or reading or retouching her make-up or at least something that had some sort of point. The thing that she hadn't intended doing was falling asleep; she had lain back against the cushions just to sit and _breathe_ for a moment, and then before she knew it everything had turned hazy.

Rishid came back at half-past eleven to find her slumped over the arm, relaxed as she never was when awake. His initial thought was that she had had some kind of accident. He was intending to wait until taking his coat off before waking her, but she stirred just as he opened the door.

"M-Oh, Rishid. How was work?" She had been hugging a cushion to her body in sleep, and when she found it on her knee she frowned and moved it out of the way.

"Not bad." He glanced at her face, eyes noting worry lines that hadn't been there the day before, and inquired, "Your day, it was…?"

Isis's lips automatically formed the expected reply, meaningless in its casualness; she choked it down. "Bad."

He sat down next to her. "Another one gone?"

"Yes. Ninth."

Rishid sighed.

"I…I told him we would think about sending him to school. That the tutor issue was a waste of time."

"It is."

She glanced quickly at him, cobalt eyes angry and so alive.

"What I mean is that he doesn't really know how to react to them. It's too personal, too close. In school classes he will be one of twenty, maybe thirty. Not so much concentrated attention."

"And he'll get to know other people."

"Yes. There is that too."

They both sighed, the sound curiously flat and undramatic.

"Never mind." Isis forced herself to sound brightly cheerful but they could both hear the lie ringing out, like an out-of-tune singer in a choir; there was no 'never mind' about it and there never had been.

"We're going to get through this. Together."

Laughter. The sound bitter and raw and so hysterical oh my God it's so hysterical.

"Don't laugh. We will."

"Do you believe that?" She turned around abruptly, facing him properly and looking straight into his eyes, and even before their gazes met she knew the answer.

…………

"Do I _have_ to wear this?"

"Yes, Ahkii. It's a part of the uniform." Isis straightened his tie again and stood back, unsure whether to laugh or cry or both. He looked so _young_ in his new school uniform; already he was fidgeting and playing with buttons, embarrassed at being dressed up so.

"It's stiff."

"That's because it is new. It will be fine once I've washed it."

"It's itchy."

"You won't notice it."

He looked up at her, huge eyes curious. "Did you have to wear a uniform too?"

"No, because I didn't go to school." Painful memories surface, rising and falling back down like planks bobbing in the ocean. Memories of hunching over a book, eyes screwed up as she tries to understand the meaningless characters; the timid request to her father to get a tutor, and then recoiling at the reply; back to the books, nearly tearing the pages with her shaking hands. She closed her eyes and then opened them again – _be gone, haunt me no longer, please oh please oh please – _but they stayed, sniggering in the back of her mind.

"Oh."

She ushered him out of the door. "Come on, you'll be late. Do you have your lunch?"

"Yeah."

"All right then, let's go." Slip into car, imitation leather upholstery plastic and unforgiving; make sure he gets in too; key in ignition and her hand is shaking, why the hell is it _shaking?_ A first day at school isn't such a big deal, especially as he is thirteen; it wasn't like The First Tooth or I Can Piss by Myself Now or Getting Knives Stuck into Your-

The world swims. She gropes wildly; feels the steering wheel with delirious fingers and pulls herself back up.

Apprehensively: "Are you okay?"

"Yes; I'm fine." Hahahahahahahaha. She isn't laughing.

Isis took a deep breath, steadying herself. Then she pulled out the keys and reinserted them, and it was a stupid thing to do but it didn't matter because this time her hand didn't shake.

It was cold and stiff like something dead.

…………

"Is this it?"

"I suppose it is." Ra, it was big. And children, so many children. Running and screaming and fighting and crying and giggling and running. The building was like something out of a magazine: bright, glossy, a slab of concrete where inside children were taught everything they were supposed to want to know. Or at least some of it.

It was a very correct looking school, almost cliched in its neat, regular appearance. Isis hadn't met any of the teachers but she could guess that they would be steely but smiley, dedicated but _caring;_ perfectly normal.

Normal. When used in the Ishtar household, the word was a joke.

Malik was staring just as much as she was, eyes even wider than before. "It's so _big,"_ he whispered, half fearful, half in awe. "How many people do you think there are here?"

"I don't know. Three hundred?"

"Wow." Malik couldn't even imagine that number of people. All with different faces and personalities and talents. It didn't seem possible.

"…I'll pick you up at three then."

"…Yeah." At once he recalled her existence, looking first at her and then at his new school with a confused expression, on the borderline of the two worlds. "…See you."

He raised a hand slightly in a shy attempt at a wave, before plunging into the sea of people.

Isis watched him go, feeling the emotions wriggling through her body like X-rays or worms or some other unfamiliar substance, and walked slowly back to the car.

…………

Malik hoisted his small rucksack slightly higher and felt it instantly knocked back down to its previous position as people shoved past. Unconsciously he shrank into himself, reducing the size of the target. People were throwing glances at him, although whether of contempt or curiosity he didn't know.

A bell rang from somewhere inside the building: for a moment there was no reaction, as if the undesirable occurrence did not merit such a thing. Then, amid mass grumblings, pupils began to break off from the crowd and slouch at a pace that couldn't be described as anything more than leisurely towards the building entrance. Uncertainly, Malik followed them.

"E-excuse me, I'm new. Where do I go?"

Sneering faces swan by. He wasn't aware of his insignificance yet, they said: give it time.

He tapped someone on the shoulder, stretching slightly to do so. "E-"

"Fuck off." It was said with an alarming lack of emotion, as if someone as potentially useless as Malik did not merit wasting emotion on. The speaker passed on, instantly dissolving into the faceless crowd; Malik, on the other hand, stood there for a moment in disconcerted surprise. Usually he was on the speaking end of such a remark, not the receiving one.

He was warier his second time, making sure to select someone who looked neither immediately psychotic or at an extreme end of the popularity scale. "Um-"

"Yeah?" It was rasped out in a hoarse grunt. The speaker had a gold ring through one ear and kept fingering it as he talked, as if saying, _hey, look guys. Am I cool or what?_

"I'm new around here-"

"Figured as much."

"-and I was wondering if you could tell me where to go?"

Another troglodytic sound, accompanied by a flaring of the nostrils that reminded Malik forcibly of a gorilla. He had studied the eating habits of one in his textbook, but had never seen anything which looked remotely one until now.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen and three quarters," he answered promptly.

The guy stared. "…Thirteen. Right. Uh, you want that line, over there." He pointed.

"Thanks." Malik ambled on, reassured, to join the straggly line. Most were plugged into their music players or robotically chewing gum or both. He edged to the back, trying not to stare at the unfamiliarity of it all.

A tall student (although most of the people seemed like mountains anyway, this person topped them like Mount. Everest) was languishing near the front, hands jammed in pockets. He turned round to catch the eye of his friend, and, in doing so, caught first sight of the new pupil. He stared. Malik, uncertain as to what the rules of etiquette in a school were, stared back. The tall student's eyes narrowed, becoming small and mean, like a shark that has just scented fresh prey. He muttered something to his companion, who turned and grinned, exposing nicotine-stained slabs of teeth. Nervous now, Malik dropped his gaze.

A bored teacher at the head of the line was ticking off names as students filed past, looking about as thrilled to be present as they were. When Malik came forward, the pen hovered for a moment over his name.

"Malik Ishtar. The new student, yes?"

"Um, yeah."

"That way please, Mr. Ishtar."

He looked ahead to where checked-off pupils had gone through the entrance and congregated around the corridor. A few had already gone in to bag seats, but most were slouched against the wall in the posture they usually took up while smoking. Old habits were hard to break. Some probably couldn't have stood up straight if they tried.

Feeling as though every eye were upon him, the teenager sidled along the corridor, trying instinctively not to attract attention but doing it anyway. People shot him looks during their conversations, mouths shaping words even as their eyes stared. Malik could feel himself starting to blush, and hurriedly shoved his way into the classroom. As he did so he accidentally brushed past the tall teenager from the queue. Malik didn't notice, but the other person did, and his eyes narrowed even further.

Upon entering his new classroom he noticed at once that the two rows nearest the back had already been filled, and dumped his bag on the next one, near the window.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing sitting there?" Youssef, the teenager with the narrow eyes, strode towards him, knocking his bag to the floor in one contemptuous sweep. "That's _my_ place."

"Actually-" Malik was about to tell him in no uncertain terms where to go and how to do it, but got no further as his bag was kicked half-way across the classroom, towards the front. A person in the back row sniggered at the joke.

Sullenly, the defeated teenager picked up his rucksack and stumped down at the desk at the front which was by now the only one free.

The talking died down slightly as the teacher entered, register tucked under one arm. Mr. Fahd had narrow, darting eyes, a slash for a mouth and a lanky frame made even hollower from years of cigarettes. There was one smouldering between his fingers now, and he took occasional drags from it as he addressed the class.

"All right, you know the drill. When I call your name, you say 'Yes, Mr. Fahd.' And no variations. Just b'cause it's the first day of term doesn't mean I'll be taking any shit from anyone."

Malik could hardly believe his ears. What kind of teacher said stuff like that? His had only gone into that vein _after_ he had started mucking around.

"Hassan, Omar."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

"Suhail, Bassam."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

"Waleed, Hani."

No answer.

"Waleed, Hani."

"I ain't here."

"I'm glad to hear it." Mr. Fahd ticked off the boy's name. "Ishtar, Malik."

"Yes, Mr. Fahd."

Someone in the back snorted with laughter. "Ishtar? What kind of a name is that?"

"A better one than yours," Malik muttered.

"What? What did he say?"

Someone repeated it.

"You wait til after school, man. You're gonna be fucking _dead."_

Mr. Fahd took another drag from his cigarette. "Settle down now, class."

…………

The lessons in themselves weren't too bad. Malik found that, even with his own patchy previous education, he was still ahead of the majority of the class. Not a particularly hard thing to be, considering that the 'majority of the class' either spent the lessons painting their toenails or farting to the tune of various songs, depending on their gender, but still oddly satisfying.

He did, however, struggle in English, which the class had been doing for nearly a year. Thus, when the bell rang for lunch, he exited the class in perhaps not the best of moods.

Youssef was not particularly happy either. He considered it his duty to make sure that new pupils knew their place in the way of things. For their own good, of course. And it was with Malik's long-term well-being firmly fixed in his mind that he tripped up the blond teenager, resulting in his lunch going everywhere. Malik, gritting his teeth and thinking of Rishid, restrained himself from doing nothing other than rejoining the queue, now covering the whole of one side of the canteen. But it was when it happened precisely the same way the _second_ time that he responded by picking up his tray and throwing it at Youssef, and thereby causing them both to be sent to the headmaster's office.

It is unknown whether Malik would have already been influenced by the feeling that in a school, no matter whose fault it is, you never 'tell' on anyone, even your worst enemy, and instead remain righteously silent or instead insist on piling the blame on yourself. Any beginnings of this were blown away as Youssef proceeded to explain how he had been insulted and provoked the entire day, in fact had been completely driven to his actions. Instigated by overwhelming injustice, Malik found himself protesting vehemently.

Eventually Malik was released with a warning, the reason behind it being that he was a new student attending his first time ever at a school. Youssef, on the other hand, ended up with an after-school detention.

This goes some way into conveying across just how livid Youssef was when he got out of his last class of the day. The detention itself wasn't a problem – he had never attended one in his life and did not propose to start doing so now – it was the fact that there was a pupil in the school who did not give him the respect he was due. In his mind Malik Ishtar was already tried, found guilty and duly sentenced. For life. Now it was time to carry out the deed in proper.

The blonde had enough sense to exit school as quickly as possible: he did not really believe Youssef or anyone else would try anything, but it might pay to get to the bus stop round the corner before anything did have a chance to happen. He performed the occasional cursory glance over his shoulder, but other than that he did not bother to take any precautions. It was his first day, for Ra's sake.

He had just reached the corner when Youssef stepped out from behind someone's bush. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Smartass. Going somewhere?" The school bully was such a cliched character that there simply were no original threats left to make, especially when first cornering your victim. Not that Youssef knew this. He was simply saying what came naturally to him.

"Home." Despite his nonchalent tone, Malik could not help but have let his gaze be drawn to the bus-stop, less than five strides away.

The older teenager saw the longing sideways flick of the eyes, and let a degree of comradeship into his voice. "Bet you can't wait to go, huh?"

Seeing no obvious trap in this, Malik replied cautiously, "Yeah."

"What? You mean you don't want to stay and talk with me? That's low, Ishtar. I thought we were friends."

Nonplussed: "Wha…I…"

"You know, if you're going to be unfriendly to me after I've been reasonable then you can't blame me for being angry, can you?"

…………

"How was your first day?" Isis called from the kitchen over the steady sound of vegetables being chopped.

"Fine," her younger brother answered dully. He trudged listlessly into the hall, dragging his feet. She could hear the carpet being scuffed under his trainers and went out to see, but he had already sought refuge in his bedroom, the door an impregnable barrier between them. Isis looked at the door for a moment, then went back into the kitchen.

Malik stared at the carpet, at the scrunched-up pieces of paper and dirty clothes strewn around the room like something out of a 'modern-art' exhibit. Whenever Isis made an entrance, (rarely now because of the amount of times he shouted at her) there was always an air of irritation hanging stubbornly around her, as if he were deliberately upsetting the uniform spotlessness of the rest of the house by insisting on displaying the contents of his room all over the carpet.

He dug his nails into his fists, birthing red and yellow half-moons in his flesh. Fuck her. It was his room; he could do what he wanted with it. And, rising, he set about systematically destroying any sense of order that remained, tearing clothes and books from their homes and flinging them down so the clothes lay in hapless piles and the books with their broken spines and shredded pages flopped lifelessly on top of each other, companionable in their moment of death.

When the room had been rendered inhabitable by even his loose standards, he glared at the scene of wreckage, seeing himself made open for anyone to laugh at. Fine, he would get rid of it all. He would not let any part of himself be read by such trivial things. Perhaps there was a strength to people knowing nothing of what you were thinking, of what you were like. When even your own room was impersonal and betrayed nothing of you.

He seized the nearest objects and stuffed them away, before thinking he might as well do this properly. He was in control in this room, even if the fact were not true outside. And so he tidied everything away until the room was ferociously tidy and he sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted but still careful to smooth out the creases as he got up. Then he stood, and counted and counted and counted until he could believe that he felt better.

…………

A/N: I am hoping this hasn't come across as fragmented: I ended up typing the last 1500 words in short bursts, finding myself either unable or unwilling to get fully into the story. I just hope it doesn't show too much.


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